"Of course." Mrs. Garrety still took several minutes to gather India's costume for the wardrobe mistress before she left the room. By the time she returned, India was reaching for her pelisse. "Ye'll be wanting company for the ride home."

  "No," said India. "I am certain I'll be fine. There's really no need for you to trouble yourself."

  "'Tis no trouble at all."

  India forced a smile. "Truly, Mrs. Garrety, I will be fine. As you said, I can hold my own."

  Mrs. Garrety clucked her tongue gently. "Didn't mean to put that maggot in yer head. Ye need a protector. It's not the first time I've thought so. Ye have too many admirers, and I don't have enough 'ands to push them all out. And ye don't have enough 'ands to slap their faces. A protector's the answer. Just see if it isn't."

  India watched the dresser go. In the quiet aloneness that followed, India felt the first wavelet of fear uncurl inside her. It was quickly followed by another. Then another. Fighting the tide was ineffective. It only left her exhausted. She drew a shaky breath instead and closed the velvet frog at the throat of the pelisse. More important to India than the question of a protector was the question of protection. The viscount's parting words returned to her now.

  You cannot expect that I will always save you, Miss Parr.

  If not Lord Southerton, India wondered, then who? The next wave crashed against her rib cage. Heart racing, she hurried toward the theatre's rear exit and the sanctuary and anonymity of the black hansom cab.

  * * *

  Lords Berwin and Grissom proved themselves reliable in repeating what they had witnessed—or almost witnessed—in Miss India Parr's dressing room. The first tidbit was dropped with even offhandedness that very night. The bored accents played well to the crowd gathered around the card table at Simon's. The story spread quickly in the gaming hell, and when members were moved the following morning to face sunshine and hangover remedies, the tale became a delicious on dit to placate the stone-faced valets and disapproving mamas.

  Southerton learned the scope of his success from his sister the following afternoon. Emma, he discovered, was also paying a call on their parents, and in South's estimation she was rather too cheerful in her greeting to be lightly dismissed. The mirth in her eyes spelled his certain doom. He kissed her cheek when she raised it to him.

  "Emma." In her ear he whispered, "No one likes a tattle."

  She beamed at him. "Oh, yes, they do." Without moving her head, she indicated the Earl and Countess of Redding with a playful slant of her eyes. She chuckled when South did not risk a glance and took his nephew from her arms instead. "He'll ruin your coat," she warned him. "He's been fussing all day."

  South immediately held the baby at arm's length and considered him gravely. "Slobber, d'you mean?" Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a smile edge his father's mouth. His mother, though, was made of sterner stuff. Her back was up. "Plump and pretty," he said as his nephew stared back at him. "Ears are still in the right place. Not at all like that doll you had, Emma. Remember? The one that—"

  She took her child back. "There will be no talk of what happened to Cassandra, South. It's not for Niles to know." She pursed her lips and added significantly, "Or anyone else, for that matter."

  South smiled coolly, one brow lifting a mere fraction. "Remember that when your tongue starts wagging again."

  "Beast."

  "Scylla."

  "Ogre."

  He touched a lock of his sister's hair that had fallen past her temple, and pushed it gently back. "You are looking well," he said sincerely. "Motherhood agrees with you, I think."

  "Indeed it does."

  South turned to his parents. "Mother." He kissed his mother's proffered cheek and found it warm in spite of the cool mien she affected. South looked to the earl to see if there would be assistance from that quarter and saw immediately he had covert sympathy. Outright support in the face of his mother's displeasure would have been folly. It was not the sort of breach a man as circumspect as the earl committed often. "Father. You look well."

  It was just the opening the Countess of Redding had been waiting for. She pounced. "Of course he is well. And why wouldn't he be? He has me to assure that he remains so. You could claim the same if you did not choose to live on your own, travel about with friends of a certain reputation, frequent places that no woman wants to acknowledge exist, least of all a mother, and behave in a most ramshackle manner, making a complete cake of yourself in the theatre, and later with an..." Here, her voice dropped to a pitched whisper. Southerton supposed it was all in aid of preventing his four-month-old nephew from comprehending this last, most salient point. "...with an opera dancer."

  South glanced at Niles. The infant was most definitely attentive. Emma, he noted, did not have the grace to look sheepish. Her features were almost as rapt as her son's. South rounded a nearby chair and served himself tea from the silver service. "Miss India Parr is an actress, Mother. Not an opera dancer."

  "She is a..." The pitched whisper came again. "A Cyprian."

  The earl intervened, laying a hand over his wife's. "That is quite enough. You will make yourself overwrought."

  "I am overwrought. Your son sees to it, my lord. He has neither your sense nor your compassion to have it be otherwise."

  Sighing under his breath, South lowered himself into a chair, politely sipped his tea, and let his mother slowly cease to spin. He loved her dearly, but ofttimes she reminded him of a tightly wound, brightly colored child's top. He had loved that toy, too.

  The countess did not linger overlong on the problem of the opera dancer. She went to the heart of the matter, a concern for which she could depend upon the full support of her husband. "It is time you marry, South. There can be no getting around it. I was speaking to Celia only yesterday about this very thing."

  South noted his mother conveniently did not mention two things of import. One, that she spoke to Celia every day about this very thing, and two, that Celia was Celia Worth Hampton, the Dowager Countess of Northam. Only a few short breaths earlier, his mother had spoken of North as one of his friends "of a certain reputation." Now that same friend was no doubt about to be lauded for having had the good judgment to enter into a matrimonial state. There would also be no reference to that event as a most ramshackle affair.

  South remembered with some fondness that his spinning top had had the same dizzying affect on him.

  Lillian Rheems Forrester continued in this vein for several minutes, making the most of her son's good-natured forbearance. When she finally finished, she regarded her firstborn with satisfaction, certain she had mined every nugget and could not have but persuaded him with the logic of her arguments and the soundness of her advice.

  Over the rim of his teacup, his eyes hooded to hide their glazed expression, Southerton nodded serenely. "I shall apply myself immediately to the matter of securing a wife."

  The countess threw up her hands. "Speak to him, my lord," she said to her husband. "I find myself out of all patience. He only means to humor me."

  Redding bit the inside of his lip. "Right you are, m'dear. South, you will cease to humor your mother."

  "Yes, sir."

  The earl looked askance at his wife. "See, it is done."

  Lillian's dark gray eyes darted between the two male loves of her life, and she surrendered. "Oh, very well. You shall each defend the other. It is always thus even when you pretend it is otherwise." Her gaze alighted briefly on her grandson, and she saw Emma's embrace tighten protectively, albeit with great care. Hah! There was the future of the Forresters.

  South almost laughed out loud when he saw his mother's attention shift to the next generation. He might have felt sorry for Niles if he hadn't been so certain of Emma's ability to protect her son. As for Emma, it was her loose tongue that had dealt him this harangue in the first place. He had no misplaced sympathy for her.

  "Since no one has any interest in my version of the events of last evening," South said, "I should like to hear how it came to your ears—and in so short a time. I am only recently risen from my bed."

  Emma volunteered that she heard it first from her husband at breakfast. He had had it from Lord Hastings during his early morning ride in the park. She could not account for the provenance of the tale, but she heard a similar story from Lady Rowena Douglass, who had come calling that morning. The earl and countess remained silent about their source, as if there was some doubt in South's mind.

  "The critics say she is quite a remarkable presence on stage," Emma said. "Is that your opinion as well, South?"

  "Yes, that's a fair estimation."

  Emma sighed. "I do so want to see her. I did before, you know, and Welsley had agreed to take me. Now, with you at the center of this bit of business, he says it will have to wait. Just when everyone else will be clamoring to see her. It is too bad of you, South. But there you have it. Welsley says we cannot go because it would cause a stir and hardly be fair to Miss Parr. He says we shall have to wait until the gossip is well behind us."

  South said nothing. He reflected that if the colonel did not remove him from this assignment, the real gossip was only about to begin.

  Chapter 2

  Five nights later, Southerton found himself once again at the Drury Lane Theatre. The same place where the great Edmund Kean had made his debut as Shylock four years earlier was enjoying renewed interest and patronage because of one India Parr. Kean himself, never effusive in his praise of a rival, had embraced her talents rather than stand in opposition to the public clamor for more performances from their new favorite. Unlike the revered Sarah Siddons, who first trod the boards in Drury Lane more than a quarter of a century before, India Parr was not foremost a tragic actress. It was widely agreed that while her tragic heroines were most excellently realized, Miss Parr had a particular gift for the nuance of character in the comedies and the sharp timing and physical humor of farces.

  Southerton was but a face in the crowd on this occasion, purposely avoiding East's box tonight. He sat six rows back from the stage, his broad shoulders uncomfortably squeezed between a heavily perfumed matron on his left and a dandy in daffodil on his right. It was a tribute to India Parr's talents that South was able to entirely ignore the discomfort to his hunched shoulders, the musky fragrance, and so much blinding yellow until the performance was ended.

  He remembered with some regret his backhanded critique of the play as not being as amusing as the company he had been keeping. South now realized he had a second apology to make to Miss Parr. It was amusing. This evening's crowd had done much more than politely titter at the risque moments and ribald humor. They had laughed deeply and loudly and long, unembarrassed by the French playwright's frankly sexual themes and his assault on the secret mores of a society that was at once free to act and hopelessly repressed from doing so.

  Southerton joined the patrons who had come to their feet, adding his standing approbation to the enthusiastic applause. He watched the company step forward, bow in unison, and gesture once again to their leading lady. It was hard to believe the applause could sustain itself, let alone grow louder, yet both these things occurred as India Parr came front and center and made her deep curtsy. Candlelight glowed warmly on the nape of her neck as she modestly inclined her head toward her audience and accepted their admiration.

  She had won them over, and no further gesture was required, yet she did a surprising thing then that effectively secured her place in their hearts. Standing once more, Miss India Parr stepped as close to the footlamps as she dared and applauded her audience.

  The house fairly erupted.

  When the acting troupe disappeared into the wings, and the echoes of approval gave way to the crowd's exiting hum, Southerton moved into the aisle and no farther. He allowed anyone who desired it to precede him toward the exits. Finally, when there was no one around, he chose a seat on the end and sat, thrusting his long legs into the aisle and folding his arms across his chest. He lounged comfortably for the better part of half the hour before rising and heading in the direction of Miss Parr's dressing room.

  The crowd had not thinned appreciably. South considered the damage to the line of his wool frock coat and clawhammer tails if he were to become part of the crush. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and smoothed one crisp corner of his white stock as he applied himself to the problem. Miss Parr's dresser, so helpful the other evening, seemed to be occupied elsewhere tonight. Perhaps she was staying away at the express orders of Miss Parr herself, or perhaps, as South suspected, she was availing herself of the medicinal properties of a dram or two of gin. He remembered the faint fragrance of alcohol wafting from the woman as she went about her business that first evening. Whatever the cause of her absence, it was just as well that it was so. Southerton had no real hope that the dresser would serve to aid his cause. For that he would require an accomplice possessing a more youthful countenance.

  South bided his time and was rewarded when a lad of some twelve years came hurrying down the corridor, carrying a pair of boots in each hand and another pair cradled close to his chest, secured by his crossed arms. South stopped him, laying a hand firmly on the boy's shoulder.

  The young prisoner chafed at his restriction. "Oh, no, m'lord. I dare not tarry. I 'ave these boots to polish." He tried to show them off, puffing out his thin chest so all three pairs would be highly visible and the importance of his work would not go unnoticed. "You'll find someone else, won't you, sir? There's plenty here what will do your bidding."

  South did not shift from his relaxed posture against the wall, nor did he loosen his grip on the boy's shoulder. He did permit himself a small smile. "How do you know what my bidding is, lad?"

  "Doobin," the lad said. "I'm called Doobin, though it ain't my proper name."

  "That would be Donald? Douglas?"

  "No, m'lord. No one knows my proper name, so I just be called Doobin."

  "I see. Enlightening."

  "It's good of you to say so, sir." Doobin took a single step forward and found himself immediately off balance because of the fingers that still clamped his bony shoulder.

  South permitted Doobin to get his feet under him again. "You haven't answered my question. How do you know what my bidding is?"

  Doobin shrugged. "I don't know. Not for certain. But it's likely the same as the others that waylay me here."

  "Oh?"

  Heaving a sigh, Doobin went on. "You want me to deliver your card to Miss Parr with a message that you would be pleased for her company at a late supper at Sarver's."

  It was somewhat humbling to have the whole of his plan pointed out by the bootblacking boy. South had not considered the number of men who had already attempted this approach, thus paving the way for his failure. "I was thinking of the Cumberland."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Does Miss Parr prefer Sarver's?"

  "Miss Parr prefers to be left alone."

  "Why don't we let her decide? There's a shilling in it for you." He could see the boy was tempted, but South was late in realizing he had baited his hook too lightly. Doobin was savvy enough to know that a single shilling was little in the way of remuneration when weighed against the continued security of his employment. South tried another tack. "You like Miss Parr?"

  "I do indeed, m'lord. A fine lady, she is. And very good to me."

  "What if I told you she will be disappointed if you do not deliver my message?"

  Doobin shrewdly studied South's face for evidence of his sincerity or the lack of it. "I can't risk it," he said finally, reluctantly.

  South decided he had one last opportunity to plead his case. "If I'm wrong, I'll take you into my own employment at double your earnings." The boy's eyes practically bulged at the notion of this fortune being laid before him. It was left for Doobin to determine whether Southerton could be trusted to keep his word. "Perhaps if you heard the whole of my message," he said. He removed a card from the gold case he carried and showed it to the boy. "Here is my name." He turned it over. "And here is my message. Can you read?"

  "A little, m'lord. Miss Parr, she's teaching me my letters."

  "It says, 'You cannot expect I will always save you, Hortense.'"

  The boots bobbled in Doobin's arms and he almost lost his grip. He gaped up at Southerton. "That's you?"

  South's dark brows creased, uncertain what the boy meant. "That's my message."

  "But you're the one. From the other night. The one in the box who spoke the line."

  There was really no point in denying it. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

  "You should have said so straightaway, m'lord. No good circling the thing, hoping I'd stumble over it." He thrust his sharp chin toward the boots pressed against this chest. "Tuck it just there, m'lord. Under the turned-down top. I'll make certain she sees it."

  South did as ordered. "Then you are in expectation that she will welcome my address?"

  Doobin chuckled. His soulfully large eyes brightened with laughter. "That's a good one, m'lord." He waited for South's grip to lift. "Is there anything else?"

  "Dinner," South said. "The pleasure of her company, and so forth."

  "Sarver's or the Cumberland?"

  "A detail for you to manage. Surprise me."

  The boy's smile split his thin face. "Just see if I don't." As soon as he was free of South's restraint, he was off at a determined pace.

  South expected Doobin would partially relieve himself of the burden of boots. He didn't. With the skill of the most adept sneaksman, the lad slipped between elbows and waistcoats, pockets and polished beaver top hats, and disappeared into the squeeze. From South's perspective there was no discernible movement in the crowd that allowed for the addition of another figure, no matter the slightness of the build. It suggested to the viscount that perhaps the boy's early training had been in the Covent Garden or Holborn school for thieves, and that likening him to a sneaksman was not so very off the mark.